


Deadshot - Wagers

by Nathaniel_Quietly



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Suicide Squad (2016), Suicide Squad (Comics)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-07 01:51:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16399145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nathaniel_Quietly/pseuds/Nathaniel_Quietly
Summary: So for those who havent heard, October is here and we at DC Animated Adventures are teaming up with Nazario Designs to giveaway the complete Batman: The Animated Series on DVD! Chris will draw a villain a day and you just write a short 400-500 word story about that character and you're entered! That simple!Lance and I decided that we wanted to play along as well, even though we're not qualified to win (as we are putting on the contest). Here's my entry for today: Deadshot! (Check outThe DCAA Facebookfor more information.)





	Deadshot - Wagers

He was drunk. That was the only explanation.

Normally, Floyd Lawton wouldn’t have given a loudmouth yokel with torn-off flannel sleeves and a beer-piss stained wifebeater a second’s thought. Dumbass was out of his element already, going out dressed like that to a bar in the Narrows. Even here at Kim’s, a bar that blasted Honky Tonk and served both kinds of beer--Bud AND Coors--an outfit like that was asking for an ass whupping. 

But then the little skidmark brought up the top hat and tails.

“Don’t wear those no more, friend,” he said, taking a pull of his beer and counting to ten in his head, the way his prison shrink had taught him. “Haven’t put on nothing that fancy in almost twenty years, matter of fact. I’m also not lookin’ for work, so if you’re fishing for a merc, check the yellow pages. I’m sure Gotham has you covered.”

But the little bumpkin wasn’t finished. He stuck a finger in Lawton’s face and snarled, “I ain’t your friend, Moustashe, and I ain’t lookin’ for no hired killer, neither. I’m callin’ you out, right here and now. You always braggin’ about how you ain’t never missed a shot, but that’s bull. Ain’t nobody that good.”

Lawton sighed. “I’m sorry, sir, but unless you’re requestin’ my services--which again, are not currently for sale--then I got nothin’ to prove to you. Now kindly screw off to whatever sinkhole you crawled out of and let me enjoy some Willie and my brew in peace.”

“Y’hear that?” the bumpkin turned and exclaimed to the crowd of onlookers who’d started to amass around them, their curiosity peaked. “He ain’t got nothin’ to prove ta us!” He laughed, hard, and a few of his compatriots started to join in. “What’s wrong, Mr. Deadshot? Can’t waste no bullets on the riffraff?”

The stool was out from under him before the hillbilly had finished “-raff”. The gun was in his hand half a breath later, its muzzle pressed firmly to the heckler’s forehead.

“You got a death wish, son?” he asked, his tone even. “Or are you just that stupid?”

The heckler grinned, even as he raised his hands, palms open. “Naw,” he said, just as evenly. He wasn’t scared. “I ain’t armed, and I know you ain’t got no contract on me. Killin’ me would be too much trouble. Why bother?”

Lawton took a long breath, released; finally, he holstered the gun. “What. Do you want. From me?” he ground out between gritted teeth.

The jerk in the flannel smiled back. “I just want proof you ain’t never missed a shot,” he said.

“Fine. What do I get if I win?”

“You can take a free poke at me. I know I’ve been gettin’ your dander up all night. My boy’ll hang back, and I won’t retaliate. One free shot.”

Lawton considered. “And what do you get if I miss?”

The heckler smiled. “Why, how ‘bout you send me the profit on your next contract? Word on the street is, you cost a million a shot. Now I don’t know ‘bout you, but I’d be set for life on a million bucks, tax free.” He proffered a hand. “How ‘bout it, Mr. Deadshot?”

Lawton took a long look at the dirt-encrusted paw before him, and gripped it in a single solid shake. Then, using his offhand, he grabbed a set of darts from a chipped and stained pitcher on the bar and, one by one, through them without looking at the board across the room. To a one, they hit the bullseye.

Still holding the man’s hand, he drew his gun again and fired point blank into his shoulder.

“One free shot, right?” he called out over the man’s sudden sharp screams. “Kim, put the brew on my tab. I think I’m done here tonight.”


End file.
